


Between Iron and Silver

by Verity (PenelopeGrace)



Series: A Thousand Battles, a Thousand Victories [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Sara Crispino, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/F, FBI Agent Sara Crispino, Hello Murder, Inspired by Hannibal and Criminal Minds, Mila's Big Dick Energy, Omega Mila Babicheva, Rare Pairings, Sara is absolutely hopeless and heads over heels in love at first sight, Some moments of pretentious dialogue cause why not, There are business cards involved, This fanfic was not paid for by Tesla, Well not really but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-09 23:43:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20125807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeGrace/pseuds/Verity
Summary: FBI Special Agent Sara Crispino arrives from Baltimore, Maryland to hunt a serial killer in Anchorage, Alaska. She keeps running into one Mila Babicheva by accident.





	Between Iron and Silver

**Author's Note:**

> Umm. . . I should technically stop, lol. Quote comes from Hannibal, the tv show. “The most stable elements appear in the middle of the periodic table, roughly between iron and silver.” This is Sara/Mila with a/b/o. Inspired by both Hannibal (from the profiling side and not the cannibalism) and Criminal Minds. But mostly Criminal Minds.
> 
> I must give thanks to 18+ on Ice discord, cause they helped me out with a lot of the finer details about murder and outfits in this fic. Thank you guys! You're the best! <3 <3 <3

_ May 2020 _

“The kids said it was where?” The park ranger gently steps around a few bushes, careful not to disturb anything. They’ve been walking off the beaten path for a while. There’s still clear small footprints leading them deeper into less traveled territory. 

“Maybe forty minutes by walking. They were running back full speed non-stop when they found it.” She pauses. “We already called the cops when the kids came back screaming and crying with that hand. They were lucky. They found some other hikers to help,” says the volunteer from Anchorage Parks and Rec.

The park ranger pauses and sets down a bright pink flag, pushing it down into the earth. “They are lucky, Martha.” 

“God knows why they brought that hand back with them.” 

The ranger hums. “Perhaps they wanted a souvenir?” 

She eyes him. “Enough with the black comedy.” 

“Sorry. Trying to relieve the tension.” A few more, and the park ranger sets down another flag. He nervously pats the remaining flags. There aren’t a lot of them left, and they have been walking for at least twenty minutes and following the kids’ footsteps. It’s too easy to get lost in this park. 

“No phone signal,” the woman mutters. 

They keep tracking, moving steadily through uneven land of the state park. Then the park ranger, after using up all his flags and reduced to using parts of his plaid shirt as a marker to tie around the trees and branches, stop briefly to tie a strip of cloth to the nearest branch. He moves forward again. 

He suddenly slams into Martha. “Martha, why did you stop?”

She doesn’t answer. 

“Martha?” He lifts his eyes forward, catching a disturbing view of something that looks straight out of horror TV shows. It takes a few seconds to register, and then he’s reaching for his walkie-talkie. “This is Nelson. We’ve located the bodies. Over.” 

* * *

Once detectives from Anchorage Police Department arrive deep into Chugach State Park, they take a few pictures and do their own analysis. Dogs bark in the distance, and an officer shout out to the detectives. “There’s more! Way more!”

“Shit,” curses the detective. “Call the FBI.”

* * *

Sara Crispino is on the first plane out to Anchorage, Alaska. As soon as she arrived in the Baltimore FBI offices and checked in on her time sheets, her boss, Morooka, throws plane tickets at her and practically pushes her out the door and onto the soonest departing plane. 

She finds herself at the Alaskan airport, waiting for the local authorities to pick her up, when she accidentally stumbles into a professional-looking woman with clicking high heels and beautiful red hair framed loosely around her face. She grabs the woman by the shoulder to steady her and hastily says, “Oh, I’m sorry about that! Long flight. Balance not right.”

The woman laughs, a pleasant, pleasing laugh. Her blue eyes sparkle at Sara. “Well, not the first time someone ran into me. But probably the prettiest someone.” She flirtatiously winks at Sara. A light breeze sends the woman’s scent, soft and poignant notes of forget-me-not flowers, to Sara’s nose. 

That wink strikes Sara, who has two doctorate degrees from respectable universities and years of service to the FBI and the BAU, dumber than a rock. “I. . . Uh. Wow,” Sara chokes, blushing. “I. . You’re. . You’re pretty, too,” she blurts out. 

Sara almost wishes for the earth to swallow her whole. The only downside is she'll never see this woman again if it did.

Smirking, the red-haired woman leans into Sara. “I’m Mila.”

“Sara,” the FBI agent manages to stammer out. “I’m Sara.” 

Mila’s red lips pull into a bright smile, that gorgeous smile hitting Sara like a baseball bat. “That accent doesn’t sound like anything around here.” 

“Chicago accent. But I came from Maryland.” 

“Business or pleasure?” Mila inquires. 

“Business.” 

She tuts, drawing a business card from the pocket of her designer suit jacket. “If you ever think about pleasure, call me. I’ll be open for a few dinners and new friends.” She glances at something or someone behind Sara. “Sorry, have to go. Work is calling.” 

Sara stands still, shocked still and frozen as Mila pivots and slowly struts, hips swaying gently, to the curb to where a sleek red Tesla Model S is parked. Her pale long legs strides easily as she props open the trunk to allow some punk kid with golden hair and the expression of a rebellious attitude carelessly drop in his suitcase and backup. The kid slams the lid close and climbs into the passenger’s seat. 

With a jaunty wave, Mila looks back at Sara and calls, “Ciao, belle!” Then she ducks into the car, pulling away from the curb and driving away. 

* * *

For one second, or perhaps more than that, Sara wonders if _ that _ may be the beginnings of a life-long car fetish. Because. Holy. Shit. 

_ Wow. _

* * *

“You’re the profiler?”

“Special Agent,” Sara corrects. At the officer’s curious look, she adds, “Or you could call me Dr. Crispino. That would be fine as well.” 

“Doctor in what?” The officer pulls away from the airport. 

“Forensic psychology. And I was a surgeon before that.” 

“You look young.” 

Sara tries for a smile. “I’ll be thirty-nine next month.” 

“Got someone at home? A few kids or an omega waiting?”

She shakes her head. “Unfortunately not.”

“The FBI must keep you very busy.”

“Perhaps,” she simply replies.

* * *

“The first two bodies were found by two kids who wandered off the path. They brought back a hand. It was the right hand of this unidentified female omega,” explains Min-so Park, the FBI Forensic Examiner from the local FBI office. She points to the black leathery skin left on the corpse closest to Sara. “The omega’s time of death was perhaps twelve to fourteen months ago. The other body is of a female beta. She’s been dead much longer. At least two years, perhaps. Purely judging by the severity of decomposition. We’ll need to run a few more tests and send samples to labs with better equipment than here.” 

“First two?” Sara hasn’t heard about there being more bodies. Just that there was a serial killer loose in Anchorage. 

“Dogs sniffed out three other bodies dumped within five hundred feet of these two. All three were buried in shallow graves. Varying stages of decomposition. They didn’t die in the park. We have no idea if there are more out there. They’re all females.” 

Serial killer for certain then. Sara’s mind quickly works. “Cause of death?” 

“Blow to the skull from the front. For the first two I’ve examined. They were all badly beaten. Looks like it was before they died. Weapon was something thin.”

“Any sign of sexual assault?”

“From the flesh that remains, it appears there aren’t any signs. The fourth victim we found was dehydrated before she died. Better condition than the others. A more recent death.” 

“Your estimate?” 

“Two or three months ago. Alaskan weather is inconsistent as hell nowadays, so I’ll need to check against the weather records. I might be more off.” 

Sara looks down the neat rows of five dead women, all placed as neatly as possible and staring eyelessly at nothing. The smell of the corpses doesn’t affect her. “No alphas?”

“Just betas and omegas. Two betas and three omegas. All in their late twenties, thirties, and maybe early forties.” 

The agent nods. “Alright, I’m going to visit the park. Got anyone who can take me?”

“One of the officers might know the area. Or the park rangers,” suggest the forensic examiner. “And tell one of the big offices to send more agents. I can’t possibly go through all the evidence by myself.” 

* * *

One of the police officers stares at Sara for a moment, a hand at his chin. He shakes his head. “Well, most of our officers don’t really know that area outside of the hiking trails and Eagle River. You should ask someone from the park rangers. They’ll know that area better.” 

“What about the park ranger who helped find the bodies?” 

“Out sick. Martha hasn’t been able to keep anything down for too long since she saw them. Said the smell keeps getting to her.” 

“But does someone know this area well?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t exactly recommend him to you.”

Sara raises her eyebrow, instantly fascinated. “Can you give me his name?”

“Georgi Popovich. He’s Anchorage’s Parks and Rec Director. Knows Chugach probably like the back of his hand. Runs the summer program every year for kids to visit Chugach and learn about plants and animals. The only problem is that he never shuts up about his new girlfriend.”

* * *

“Georgi Popovich?” Sara knocks on the door of the alpha’s office located at the Anchorage Community Center. She could smell his pheromones all the way from the hallway. It’s not unpleasant or aggressive but just strong and distinctive, smelling of pine and snow. She glances over a multitude of photographs of the alpha wrapping his arms around a smiling blonde girl that must be his new girlfriend. 

A man with severely stylized hair and a light dash of colored eyeliner glances up from his paperwork. “Yes, you are Sara Crispino?” 

She nods. “Officer James recommended you to help me survey Chugach. He said you know the area better than anyone else.”

"As well as anyone could know a park of four hundred thousand acres." 

"If you have time, would you please accompany me to the park?" 

He purses his lips. "I have a feeling that wasn't a request. Let me finish up my paperwork, and I'll be right out to assist."

* * *

Though the officer said Georgi would be quite chatty about his current girlfriend, he remains silent and deeply uncomfortable while hiking to the dumping sites. An Anchorage police officer and a park ranger forms their little party of four. Only the park ranger speaks, telling Sara about park entrances and the relative terrain. 

"Usually snow. Very cold in the winter. But the weather has been out of whack for the last few years. Unpredictable as hell." 

"Lots of visitors here?" 

"Not as many as summer. Winter comes around, a lot of folks just stay at home. Gets dark real fast, if we even get any sun. Days are short." 

"What about the area where the body was found?" 

The park ranger shakes his head. "I don't know much about this area. I usually handle the area around the lake. This was Nelson's usual area, but he's out sick. There's a trail about three miles away from the burial sites. Mr. Popovich might know more." 

“Mr. Popovich?” Sara prompts. 

“Not a popular trail. It snows in the winter, which makes it extremely difficult to hike. There’s a lot of twists and turns. Most visitors would prefer to hike the easier and safer trails, if they’re hiking. Usually, we have snowmobiles and snowboarders near the peaks.”

“So you could say that there’s rarely anyone coming here during the winter season?”

“Yes,” Georgi confirms. 

“You grew up in Anchorage.” Sara slows her pace until she’s right by Georgi. 

“Born and raised. I rarely leave Alaska.”

“You know Chugach?”

“Fairly well. My parents took me here or Chugach National Forest almost every weekend to go hiking, snowboarding, or swimming here. Ever since I was a toddler. I still come here or to the National Forest every week.” Georgi looks aside, knowingly glancing at the FBI agent. “I know I look suspicious to you.” 

Sara says, “Lots of people are suspicious. I’m not going to pin my eggs in any basket until I learn more about the victims. But if you don’t mind, can I please have your business card or phone number? If I have further questions.”

“Of course,” he agrees, passing a card to her. 

Sara briefly glances at the card. _ Georgi Popovich, Director of Parks and Recreation, Municipality of Anchorage _it says in delicate letters. Below that is the Parks and Recs’ address, Georgi’s office phone number, and work email. There’s a drawn picture of a tree and a snowy mountain peak next to the alpha’s name. 

“This is it,” calls out the park ranger. “We’re here. This is where the first two bodies were found.” 

There’s still some markings of where the bodies were found. Sara spins around, noting the trees and lack of civilization. She voices her thoughts, “It’s very secluded here. The entire walk here is difficult, and it’s not possible to come here by car.” 

“We had to move the bodies manually back to the trail. We couldn’t get them airlifted out before dark or by car,” says the officer. “Too many trees. Uneven terrain. Rocks are everywhere.”

So the unsub had to carry or wheel the bodies here to dump them, Sara realizes. She could see a profile forming at the corner of her mind. It’ll be someone with good physical health, able to carry a dead body three miles over rough terrain. It’ll probably be a local and someone who knows the parks fairly well to be able to go off the paths without getting lost. Most likely a male. Statistics will tell her it’s most likely an alpha, though a beta could be very possible. Able to come and go without being noticed or viewed as suspicious.

* * *

“Special Agent Emil Nekola,” says a smiling man, dressed in a casual button-up shirt and slacks. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr. Crispino. I’ve read your dissertation a few times, and I’m struck by the conclusion you made.” He scratches nervously at his neck, sending tiny scent notes of paper and ink towards the alpha. 

Sara nods. “Thank you. You came from the Los Angeles office?” 

“Fresh off another case. Then bossman decides to throw me at Anchorage to give a whack at this case. I’m also from BAU.”

“If you have read my dissertation, you must be in psychology.” 

“Behavior psychology, yes. Still working on my Master’s.” Practically gushing with praise, the agent adds, “The paper on sibling codependency must be the very foundation to all future studies about codependency. They could not avoid citing your paper, Dr. Crispino. There’s even a facebook page dedicated to your paper. 38 likes and counting.” 

“Facebook page?” Sara gasps, nearly tripping mid-step. 

“Started by this Georgetown law student named Kenji. He has another page that’s more popular. A Yuuri Katsuki Appreciation Fan Page.” 

Sara decides not to mention to Agent Nekola that she has worked with Yuuri in the past. After the entire Nikiforov-Leroy fiasco last year and his brief job at the USCP, he’s currently employed by the FBI, still working under Ciao Ciao and still occasionally recognized by the media for taking names and kicking asses of white collar criminals. She has heard from Phichit, who has been fired by the FBI for tipping off Yuuri and breaking dozens and dozens of protocols, that there’s also a dedicated fanpage somewhere on the dark corners of the internet that appreciates Yuuri’s ass and designer outfits, which are most likely put together by the Congressman. Yuuri has never dressed like that before. Sara speculates that appreciation fanpage is probably run by Phichit himself. 

Sara quickly changes the subject. “Were you able to read the case?”

“Yes, was reading about it on the flight. Ghastly.” Agent Nekola steps through the doorway and greets the forensic examiner. “Ms. Min-so Park, right?”

“Do you see any other Asian forensic examiners here?” remarks the examiner, casually waving a scalpel at the empty space around her. 

“I see,” hastily replies the agent. “Your initial evaluation hits all the marks. I picked up the material results for you from Seattle.” He props open his briefcase and pulls out a thick stack of print-outs. 

“Material?” Sara blinks at the examiner. It must be new information. 

The examiner nods, eagerly grabbing the test results. Moving around the clean but fractured bones of one of the victims, “Some of their clothes were intact. Others were melded into the skin. The clothes that are fairly destroyed are made of cotton. Two of the victims had underwire from their bras. The victim who died over three years ago was wearing a polyester pantsuit. Hard to decompose. Easy to find the brand of that one. Prada. It’s designer. Dental records came back for her. Name’s Andrey McCabe, thirty-two years old. Five feet eight, a hundred and fifty pounds. Caucasian and beta. She’s a corporate tax accountant. Reported missing on September 23, 2016. Juneau PD couldn’t find any leads, but speculated she disappeared between September 20 to the friday morning of September 23. 23rd is when her employer finally called the police, concerned about her disappearance. She’s an earlier victim.”

“Any others identified?” Sara asks. 

“One was easier than expected. Her medical ID bracelet was in her stomach. Peggy Lewis. Also Caucasian but omega.”

“In her stomach?”

“Was probably swallowed down.”

Sara blinks, then she peeks at Agent Nekola, who looks rather thoughtful. 

He inquires, “What was on her ID?”

“Allergy info, phone number, name, and on antidepressants. She was twenty-seven and worked as a paralegal at an Anchorage law firm. Five feet four, a hundred and forty pounds. Last seen on March 5, 2018. Her son’s babysitter reported her missing the same day.” 

“Hair color?” Nekola wonders. “Are they are the same?”

“Brunettes. Three out of five, for certain. I’ll need time to identify the last two. The other examiners from Seattle aren’t here yet, and the ones working at Anchorage are working on some other homicide cases that’s been marked for top priority.” 

“How about the third identified?” 

“Thanks to dental records, we know this young omega.” The forensic examiner steps around a gurney to a body bag. “Tammy Milton, twenty-five years old. Five feet eleven, weighed a hundred and sixty pounds. Bank teller at Wells Fargo in Fairbanks. Way up north from here.”

“Wore a pantsuit when she died?” 

“She had collar stays in her shirt. Melded into her skin. I would say that yes, she was wearing a pantsuit.” 

“His victim pool are older brunettes, who aren’t alphas. They were professional women. Career women. Ladder climbers,” says Sara, narrowing her eyes. “Judging by the brutality he exhibited on them before they died, he’s very angry with them. Rageful. Resentful. The unsub was careful and didn’t leave any traces of himself and choose to dispose the bodies in a secluded area, so I would say he is at least thirty years old. Organized killer. He has to be physically strong enough to carry the bodies over harsh terrain for three miles and be knowledgeable of the areas. He blends in with everyone else.” She looks over to her fellow special agent, who is staring at her with something Phichit calls “heart eyes.” 

He stiffens, the look of adoration washing away. 

“How does he pick them? A bank teller, an accountant, and a paralegal. Fairbanks, Juneau, Anchorage. All over Alaska.” mutters Agent Nekola. He stares at a body bag. “How did he find you? How does he pick you?”

* * *

A somewhat familiar blonde punk kid sullenly opens the door to one Georgi Popovich’s apartment. He barks out, “Well, what the fuck do you want?”

Sara pulls out her badge. “I’m Special Agent Sara Crispino with the BAU. I’m looking for Georgi Popovich.” 

“Fucking Feds,” mutters the kid, leaving the door wide open. “Try not to distract the party. We’re throwing a bachelor party. If you’re looking to profile Georgi, just know he’s clingy as hell. He’s not a crazy axe killer type, but if you even think about removing the omega rights enacted in the 60s, he’s going to bury you in the forest where they’ll never find you.” 

Sara raises an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“He’s a gross man who likes strong-headed omega girlfriends, who aren’t afraid of stepping on him. He’s so proud that they walk on him. Wears their marks as if it’s a fucking status symbol. He’s such a pervert.” The horror in the kid’s eyes shine. “I lost my innocence because of him.”

“Of Georgi, little Yura? Please, it was Chris who made you lose—” 

Appearing behind the kid’s shoulder, Mila stops mid-sentence, recovers quickly, and cocks her head. She throws an award-winning smile at the FBI agent. “Well, hello, Sara. I thought you would call me before showing up at my friend’s door.” 

The punk kid mimics gagging. “This is disgusting,” he declares, hunching his back. “I’m leaving this party.”

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Mila grabs the back of the kid’s shirt and shoves him back into the apartment, making him disappear into the darkness like a magic trick. She uses the momentum to lean closer into Sara, her long eyelashes blinking slowly and calculating in a strangely attractive manner. Sara has never been more aware of someone else’s height advantage over her than now. With her auburn hair loose, Mila towers over Sara in her sharp red high heels and grey virgin killer sweater with long, pale legs stretching on for what seems to be forever. 

Sara’s mouth opens and then closes. “I didn’t know you’ll be here,” admits Sara, finally getting some semblance of english words out. 

“It’s our boss’ bachelor party. We had to pile alcohol into his fiance’s mouth, but we finally got him giving him a private lap dance.” Mila leans smoothly against the doorway, her leg rubbing against the door. The fragment of forget-me-not strengthens in potency. “So why are you looking for Georgi?” 

“I’m working right now. I work for the FBI.” 

Mila immediately straightens, her entire composure shifting into something more defensive. Wary. Suspicious. Cautious. “Why are you looking for Georgi?” 

“A simple question about Chugach State Park.”

“About the bodies?”

“I can’t answer that,” replies Sara. 

Mila takes that as a yes. “Look, Georgi is a great guy. He’s very in touch with his emotional side. Everyone else might think he’s weird and too soft for an alpha, but he doesn’t shy away from his feelings. He doesn’t hide behind a wall of alpha pride or ego or whatever they’re calling it. He wouldn’t harm anyone. One time a waiter accidentally poured water into his lap, and Georgi apologized to her as if it was his mistake.” 

Sara, thinking carefully about her words, says, “He’s not a suspect. He knows Chugach very well. I need to ask him a question about the park.” 

“Mila, what’s taking so long?” asks the alpha in question. Dressed in a simple black t-shirt and ripped jeans, Georgi looks over her shoulder. “Oh, Agent Crispino. I’ll step outside for a sec, Mila.” He moves around the redhead, who’s shooting Georgi a surprised look, and closes his front door in front of Mila’s face. Now standing alone with the agent, Georgi grimaces a little. “Hi, what would I do for you?”

“I wouldn’t have come over if you were accepting your calls.”

He whips out his smartphone from his pocket. “Sorry, was on do-not-disturb mode. It’s a Saturday, and I didn’t expect work to be calling. From either employer.”

“Two employers?”

“I work occasionally on a politician’s staff if he ever needs a caseworker.” 

Sara nods, absorbing this information. “I need to ask a question about the burial sites. The bodies were buried about a foot deep into the ground. All of them were buried in the middle of winter. How difficult would it be to carry a body three miles off the trail and bury them?”

“Fairly difficult. That’s a lot of weight to carry over a distance with snow. Plus burying them would be difficult depending on the snow height. Ground would be frozen. It’s not that easy to do.”

“Could he have taken them on a sled or perhaps a snowmobile?”

Georgi pauses. “For a snowmobile, some parts of the terrain, yes. Other parts, I wouldn’t recommend it. It’s quite dangerous for a snowmobile. Too narrow and ice may vary. I wouldn’t know the quality of it. Sled is a better, easier, and quicker option, but it could be tricky to navigate in between the trees. It's not impossible.”

“And burying?”

“A lot of physical work there. You’ll have to go through the snow and then the frozen ground. It’ll take more than half a day and a shovel.”

So the unsub would need a lot of time, knowledge, and stamina. He already has a lot of privacy deep in Chugach State Park.

* * *

“So I found the same traces under all their nails. Generic brand of detergent, white paint that could be found in every Home Depot on this planet, generic silicone sealant, DNA traces of previous victims before them. Possibly means they were scratching at the same thing,” says the forensic examiner, looking a bit healthier with a few assistants running tests behind her. 

“They were kept in a work shed or a basement before he killed then,” concludes Agent Nekola. 

“Starved and dehydrated,” adds Ms. Park. “For a few days. Before beaten to death. Almost every bone in victims’ bodies is broken or fractured. It’ll be easier to list what hasn’t been damaged.” 

“Then carefully disposed. But why did he start three years ago?” questions Sara. 

“There could be older bodies,” he suggests. 

Sara approaches the pictures of the four victims. Back when there were alive. The fifth victim, a rather young omega, hasn’t been identified but was killed this last winter. It was strange how they couldn’t find her identity by dental records or DNA in the databases. 

“How did he start?” asks Sara. All the women are within a certain age range. “It’s an obsession about someone.”

“They were all beaten by the same amount of force. Methodical in their brutality,” adds the forensic examiner. “Certainly methodical in their disposal.” 

“All these women are random. The betas could easily pass off as omegas. Andrey, the beta victim, did pass herself off as an omega to gain clients. All were disposed in the same way. There’s nothing particularly special about any of them. It’s the appearance that’s drawing him in. He’s reminded of someone and abhors them so much he wishes to kill them over and over again. Just playing out his fantasy.” 

“So perhaps he knew one of the victims?”

Sara shakes her head. “I don’t think he did. He’s the only connection between all of them. I think he stalked them all long enough to figure out their comings and goings to the point where he took them when they wouldn’t be missed for a few days. He screwed up with Peggy Lewis, when her divorced husband had a work emergency and requested the babysitter to bring their son to her house. She was noticed far quicker than the others.” 

“I can work on trying to retrace her last steps. Maybe I can pinpoint where she was taken,” suggests Emil. 

“Yes, that would be a good place to start. Maybe we should have some ground-penetrating radar look around maybe 500 feet of the area,” adds Ms. Park. 

Sara pinches the ridge of her nose. “I’ll try figuring out how he picks the victims.”

* * *

Sara ends up at the local gym on the good side of town. It’s annoyingly expensive, but they have a three day pass and Sara figures it may be enough to figure out something about the case. She has taken position in front of a punching bag and taken to beating the crap out of it. She allows her mind to wander briefly before slipping into the mind of the unsub. 

She stops after a punch and looks down at her hands. No, it’s not by hands. It’s by some long object, possibly a metal pipe or a bat. She opens up her gym bag to pull out a small steel bar she picked up from the local hardware store. Then she takes a hard hit at the bag. Again. Then again. Then again. 

An extraordinary amount of rage. Enough to kill someone. 

“You keep punching that bag out, and they’ll make you pay double the price of the bag when you break it,” says a familiar voice behind the alpha. 

Sara drops the bar, spinning around to see the beautiful Alaskan smiling slightly at her. Sara nearly lets out a breath of relief that no, Mila doesn’t completely hate her. Or at the very least. . . Mila doesn’t hate her enough to let Sara destroy an innocent punching bag. 

“Looks like some rough issues. Relationship problems?” Mila turns slightly, revealing the pale expanse of skin on her back not covered by her red sports bra. 

“Not mine.”

Wisely changing the subject, Mila tilts her head and asks, “Want to spot me?” With a delicate tilt of her head, she gestures towards the weights. 

After watching Mila put 230 pounds on the bar, Sara couldn’t help but blurt out, “Isn’t that too much?”

Mila looks back and smirks. “Oh, this is just a warmup.” She proceeds to wipe away every thought in Sara’s mind as she deadlifts all that weight easily, almost as if she’s not carrying any of that weight at all. As she holds the position still, her arm muscles are taut and still. Her bare back is smooth and sensual. Steady in their stretch, Sara is helpless and could do nothing but watch, and Sara’s mind goes blissfully blank as she uselessly does nothing resembling spotting. It’s clear that Mila absolutely does not need Sara’s help at all when she expertly sets the weight and the bar back down. 

“Wow,” whispers Sara. 

“I was a weightlifting champ back in high school. I still lift every day here.”

_ Please lift me, _ thinks Sara. She does not say that aloud. 

“I apologize for my words to you last week. About Georgi. I took it quite badly.” Mila quickly explains, “Last year, my boss was investigated by the FBI. He was innocent, but it wasn’t before they tore up the entire office, scared the secretaries and our caseworkers, and took anything that was paper and possibly an important document. I was afraid that Georgi was in trouble as well.” 

“It’s fine. I don’t take that personally,” replies Sara, wishing she has something much nicer and less awkward and stilted to say. This is perhaps the one time she wishes she has Mickey around. Not the moody, angsty teenager version of Mickey, but rather the current and mature version of Mickey who is probably annoying everyone around him but still finding the right words to say in every situation. 

"I know I sound like probably every single one of the family members or friends of a serial killer, but Georgi is too nice and kind to be the Chugach State Killer. He helped a lot of people." 

Sara nods, certainly unable to find any words to that. 

After a few minutes of rearranging the weights, Mila clears her throat. "We keep meeting each other randomly. You have to call the number on my business card so we'll stop," says Mila. "I'll be happy to see you around while you're in town. Show you the sights." 

"I may have misplaced your card." 

Mila winces and then brightens. "I'll give you my phone number then. Got a pen?" 

Sara pulls one out from her gym bag.

She scribbles her phone number on Sara's wrist. "Seriously. Call me sometimes." She strolls away to the locker rooms, whistling. The scent of forget-me-not leaves a tempting trail for Sara to follow. 

* * *

Mila

Hi, it's Sara Crispino.

We've met three times by accident.

I hope you know who I am.

I do. 

<3 

If you're free, I'll love to have dinner with you.

8pm. Whatever day you want. Give me your hotel number and I'll pick you up. :) 

* * *

Sara finds it by a stroke of luck. The exact same way she keeps on meeting Mila. A brush of luck painted by Lady Fortuna smiling upon them. Mila's business card rests on the closet floor, partially hidden away by the hotel's ironing board. 

Sara picks it up and breathes in. A heavenly scent of forget-me-not that is completely Mila alone. She feels the paper, recognizing it to be some expensive type with refined texture and shiny dark blue printed letters. 

_ Mila Babicheva _

_ Chief of Staff _

_ Of Congressman Victor Nikiforov (AK) _

Below that is her personal and office number and email address, but Sara's mind is _ racing. _

She grabs her laptop and begins googling. She finds Whitepages and picks off the phone number and name from Mila's business card. Whitepages finds nothing about Mila, but a brief Google search easily finds Mila Babicheva listed as the Chief of Staff on the Congressman's page. Which briefly reminds Sara that she still needs to RSVP to Yuuri's wedding in Palm Springs, and holy crap, Georgi must had been hosting Victor's bachelor party and Yuuri is in Alaska as well and she should text him at some point just to say hi. 

She pulls the first victim’s info and begins doing a quick whitepage search, easily finding the information of the last victim plastered on the web. Age, address, phone number, relatives. Enough for someone to go on to start stalking. 

Sara thoughtfully looks at Mila's business card. She can picture it so clearly.

* * *

“He’s worthy of the victim’s attention. He’s notable. He’s the kind of client all of the victims would want. He’s well-off, most likely to be educated at university level, and unnoticeable by being noticeable. They only saw him in passing, and he only saw them once or twice. He has enough time on his hands to stalk them and kill them without notice.”

Ms. Park glances up. “A middle-aged man with good reputation and standing. The kind of person people wouldn’t avoid talking to. The dental records came back for the fifth victim, and it isn’t good. She’s a prominent real estate agent from Whitehorse, Yukon. Canadian. Her disappearance shook up that town.” 

“What kind of houses did she sell?” 

“Not houses. Commercial buildings in Yukon, British Columbia, and Alberta. You might want to hurry up before the Canadian investigators get over here and start mucking up the case. They’re going to want this serial killer arrested.”

Sara looks at the tax accountant on the board. “Corporate tax accountant. A bank teller who works primarily with business loans. A paralegal working in a law firm specializing in contracts and copyright laws. A hotel manager of Marriott. A real estate agent selling commercial buildings.”

“Maybe the unsub was at some point a client of one or two of them?”

“He’s careful. He wouldn’t be that reckless to let a financial trace be visible,” dismisses Sara. She turns her head when the door opens to reveal Agent Nekola. 

“So the paralegal angle is maybe throwing some hints. Her ex-husband let me into her old apartment, and I was able to find her diary hidden in her bookshelves. Read a bit of it on the way here. It’s probably not the most trustworthy source, because she was on antipsychotics. Husband said she had schizophrenia but was doing well enough to function in everyday society.”

“Her medical bracelet said she was on antidepressants,” points out the examiner. 

“Well, I’m trying to request her medical records, but it looks like antipsychotics is more likely. Bunch of empty bottles for Latuda in her bathroom.” Emil opens the diary, which is disguised to look like a random mass market paperback. He quotes, “‘August 3, 2015. 2:32am. Am I crazy or do I just need sleep?’”

“Seems remarkably normal,” comments Ms. Park. 

Emil reads more. “‘4:21am. Drank two glasses of red wine. Probably shouldn’t with these new meds. Have work tomorrow.’”

“I stand corrected then. That’s remarkably stupid.” 

“There was one entry that may be of interest.” Agent Nekola flips to a dog-eared page. “‘February 27, 2018. 10:12pm. Twice is a coincidence, but three times marks me as a fool or a lunatic. Maybe it’s my brain telling me to buy a new car. I’ve seen this black Subaru Outback three times already, and it’s parked two streets down. I’ve seen it at the firm, too. Maybe I’m hallucinating and the meds aren’t working again.’”

Sara jumps. “Did you—?”

“Already having Alaska’s DMV give me the list of everyone who registered a Subaru Outback. It’s a long list. If we could find the name or location, it would narrow the pool.” 

“Does her diary say anything else?”

“No, but she was detailed. She recorded time and date of everything and anyone she has ever met. Here was one entry. ‘December 10, 2014. 12:20am. Widow Ms. Elizabeth Whitman has profound love for cats and loves her grandchildren. Emily, 10. Jason, 8. Francis, 4. About my shoulder height and unusual purple spectacles. She is interested in having her will rewritten but our law firm does not handle wills. Recommended her to Brigham & Collins & Associates.’ There’s hundreds just like this.” 

“Then there’s a chance that the unsub was mentioned as well,” concludes Sara. “Then we match a name with the DMV list. We can nab him there.” 

“I’ll work this angle,” says Emil, grinning broadly for the first time in weeks. “Let’s get this son of a bitch.”

* * *

When Mila comes by the hotel to pick Sara up, Sara shouldn’t be surprised that the redhead is dressed a thousand times better than her. Tightly accenting her waist, the midnight black lace dress hugs Mila’s body like a second skin and ends right above her knees. Her arms are left bare, and at the right angle of light, the dress shimmers and draws every eye. Her auburn red hair artfully twists into braids, half down to spill over her back. Clicking stiletto heels stroll confidently as they follow the server, who takes them to their somewhat private table. 

“Wow,” whispers Sara. 

The diamonds on her necklace sparkle as Mila leans forward. “You like it?”

“I do.” Sara doesn’t mention how she probably can’t afford a meal here on a government’s salary, but for Mila and her company, she won’t mind breaking her bank. 

“The only other FBI agent I know is Yuuri. He says you’re a friend.”

“I have worked with him in the past. He’s very good at his job. He’s very good in White Collar. Not afraid to play hardball against all those criminals, because he has no ambition to join the private sector. I consider him a good friend.” 

A waiter comes by to fill their glass with red wine. 

“Not part of the chickenshit club then.”

“Absolutely not. More of the _ oh, crap, shit is going to hit the fan because of me _ club.”

Mila laughs. “What club are you part of?”

Sara swirls her glass. “I don’t go after white collar criminals. I specialize in behavior analysis of criminals. So usually, the worst of humanity not driven by greed but. . . Darker tendencies.” 

Silence. 

Sara’s used to it. Bringing up her work with human traffickers, serial killers, serial rapists, child murderers, child kidnappers tend to put a stopper— 

“It’s vital job, Sara. Vital and honorable,” Mila tells her, smiling gently. “Makes me wonder about why I’m in this career sometimes when there are better ways to make an impact.”

“Politics keeps society stable. The lack of society is anarchy. No law, no order, no justice.” 

“It keeps the fat cats fat,” says Mila. “And fatter. The world is their oyster, and they keep eating the best part of the flesh to make their pearls.”

“The same comparison could be made for murderers.” Sara is suddenly struck by the lack of fear and horror Mila exhibits. She’s not afraid of what Sara chases at all, but rather, she seems intrigued and interested in her work. 

“Humanity in general.”

“What are lines when everything could be fallen into a slippery slope?”

Mila flashes a smile, quickly polishing off her glass of wine without savoring the flavor. She tilts her head and tells Sara, “I want to give you an apology for the way Yuri Plisetsky talked to you the other day.” A waiter swings by to refill her glass, and Mila gives a nod of thanks. 

“Yuri Plisetsky?” The name draws a blank. 

“The blonde kid who opened the door during Victor’s bachelor party. To Georgi’s apartment.” 

That draws something. The scowling blonde punk who gave Sara a lot of attitude with all the grumpiness of a cat tossed into the pouring rain. Sara laughs. “You don’t have to worry about that. Teenagers will be teenagers.”

Mila chokes in her gulp, coughing. “Teenager?” she snorts, barking out a laugh. “Oh, don’t let him hear that. He’ll be a horror to you for the rest of his life.” Her voice drops to a whisper, as if Yuri Plisetsky could somehow hear her next words. “Yuri Plisetsky is twenty-four years old. He’s turning twenty-five soon.” 

Sara’s eyes widen. “He seems. . . Much younger.” 

“Teenager attitude he never grew out of. But when the moment counts, he does the right thing. When the federal investigators came around to take Congressman Nikiforov’s files last year, he cursed up a storm. Someone decided to post the video on youtube. Then his boyfriend made a remix out of it.” 

“His boyfriend sounds like an enabler.” 

“If you meet Otabek, you wouldn’t think so. He has the same attitude and expression as a brick wall. But you turn around and the next thing you know, there’s an epic rap remix on Youtube hashed out or an article on the _ Washington Post _ about spilled crude oil and fishing nets in the oceans. He’s an aide like me.” 

“Aide? But it says Chief of Staff on your card.”

“Otabek is officially the Deputy Chief of Staff. I have seniority, because I’ve worked for Victor much longer. But he has legislative experience and doubles as the Legislative Director, and I don’t. Yuri Plisetsky is Victor’s assistant and scheduler. You have to go through him to talk to Victor.” 

Sara takes a sip from her glass. “Georgi says he’s Victor’s caseworker? What is that?”

“When we have issues like veterans not getting their support checks or their benefits or people complaining about the highway, they end up contacting Victor’s office. Georgi is a caseworker who helps with constituents who need extra help. He also listens to grievances and makes Victor look good." 

“A difficult job. He manages to do it while being the Parks and Rec Director?”

“And lavishing his girlfriend at every turn,” adds Mila. “He once hired singing telegrams and a full orchestra on Valentine’s Day. It’s impressive.” 

Sara pauses at that. “That’s dedicated.” 

“Yes.” 

A content moment of silence. 

Then Mila swirls her glass and casually states, “So your surname is Crispino.”

Sara confirms, “Yes.” 

“Senator Michele Crispino of Illinois?” 

“My twin brother.”

“A small world then,” Mila says. She raises her glass to Sara. “A toast?”

The alpha reaches for her own wine glass. “To what?” 

“To us,” simply answers the redhead. 

Their glasses clink.

After taking a swallow and suddenly making a sharp conclusion, Sara sputters and coughs. Stunned, she looks up straight into Mila’s blue eyes and asks, “Wait. Are you courting me?”

Not acknowledging the question, Mila carefully reaches for her purse and pulls out a velvet box about the size of a phone. She slides it across the table and requests, “Please open this.” 

Trying to stop her shaking hands, Sara unveils a beautiful handkerchief that is saturated with the potent smell of _ Mila _ and the familiar forget-me-not fragrance. Her finger brushes the silk handkerchief, and Sara whispers, “I’ve never been courted before. Or thought of courting someone.”

“I know omegas don’t tend to court alphas,” Mila pauses, “but I’m asking if you want to be courted.” 

For a moment, Sara’s surprised. Mila’s an omega? It seems terribly obvious now. The scent, the graceful way she moves, but the confidence and her personality? It’s all her. 

Sara grabs her scarf from her purse and rubs it against her scent gland, thoroughly scenting it and offering it to the redhead. Without even thinking about all the possible and logical reasons why they might not work out and the horror stories of long distance relationships, she replies, “As long as you want to be.”

* * *

“I found three names that match the DMV list,” says Emil, grinning. “So how do you want to approach this, Dr. Crispino?” 

“Let’s see which one matches the profile. Then we get a warrant from the judge and some angry S.W.A.T. team over to break down the front door,” answers Sara. She leans over her fellow agent, squinting at the laptop screen. 

Emil reads the info for the first name. “Michael S. Owens, thirty-nine years old. Tech entrepreneur. Currently drives a Ford F150 and a Dodge Caravan. Married for a decade with children. Son is driving both cars. Wife’s a homemaker. Nice address in a nice neighborhood. Juneau. Nothing showing up on police records.” 

Sara begins pacing behind Emil. “Why does he choose these women?” 

“He’s envious of their success? He’s resentful of them?”

None of them sound right. “No. There’s something about these women that get him so mad he beats them to death. It’s not sexual. It’s definitely about power but it’s. . . He sees something in them. Or rather, he sees someone. He’s fixated.” Sara finds herself looking at the pictures of victims again. When they were alive. “Somewhere in them is someone he just truly hates.”

“Dean R. Neely, forty-five years old. Anchorage. Business owner of a landscaping business. Switched up his car for a Ford Fiesta. Never married. Nothing from police records. Third name is Henry Daniels Junior, forty-nine years old. Lives in Anchorage. Married once, one child, and no outstanding police records. He’s a VP of an oil drilling company. He has a few other cars registered to him. A Toyota Camry and a BMW X3.” 

Two betas, three omegas. Four of them are single or divorced mothers. Four out of five. It may be a coincidence, but Sara’s instincts have saved her life many, many times. Statistics tell her that children without the presence of their sire in their childhoods tend to commit more deviant and violent acts than those with. So what did this mother do?

“Which one grew up with a single parent? An omega or beta mother.” Sara rubs her forehead. Her instincts scream about the cars. Why buy a Toyota and a Subaru when you could have a BMW? “Look up Henry Daniels’ mother.”

“Obituary for Catherine Hobbs. Died August 2, 2016 at sixty-eight. Sara, you should see this.” Emil raises his laptop to reveal an airbrushed picture of Catherine Hobbs in her thirties with 80s-style brown hair and serious eyes and a barely-there smile on her lips, all of her physical features closely resembling all their victims. 

“Now we gotta get ourselves a warrant,” declares Sara, grinning.

* * *

“It’s more than enough to put him away. Victim’s DNA traces are all over his basement. They were scratching at the door and walls. He was beating them up with a pipe,” explains Emil, gesturing to the basement door. “You want a look around his house?”

Sara nods. “Sure.” 

She ends up in what appeared to be Catherine’s old room. They lived in a nice house in a quiet neighborhood. Lots of land for a house, and none of the neighbors have ever saw anything suspicious. She wanders deeper into the room, looks around at the neat rows of knick knacks and pictures, and finds nothing out of the ordinary. Clear pill bottles for suppressants are filled with origami stars. Slipping on gloves, she pulls out a drawer at Catherine’s desk. A stack of business cards rest next to a bundle of pens. 

Sara picks up the stack. The top one says in gold cursive: _ Catherine Hobbs, Executive Vice President, National Bank of Alaska. _ Then there’s her phone number. 

Sara puts Catherine’s card aside. 

Then she sees a different name with an X drawn through the letters. _ Tammy Milton, Vice President, Wells Fargo. _ The next card has an X as well. _ Peggy Lewis, Paralegal, Pearson Jackson. _ Same with the next card and the next. And the next. And the next. And the next. 

Logic tells Sara there are two undiscovered bodies out there. 

There are cards without an X. Potential victims, Sara guesses. Sara places all of the cards into the evidence bag. It’s sometimes nice to know her profile is right.

* * *

“Congratulations on arresting the Chugach State Killer, Sara,” says Mila, leaning against the doorway of her apartment with a champagne glass in her hand. Her black bandage dress looks too peelable, and Sara is very, very weak. “You’re just in time for Yuuri’s bachelor party.” 

“I’m surprised he’s holding it in Anchorage.”

“He has two. One here. And one in his hometown at his parents’ hot springs,” answers Mila. “Victor had one back in Washington with all of his stuffy colleagues.” 

“I bought a gag gift for Yuuri.” Sara holds up a sparkling gift-wrapped box. Upon passing by a certain shop, she couldn’t resist buying something for Yuuri’s bachelor party. 

Mila salaciously winks. “Is it that kind of gift?” 

Sara laughs. “Sort of.”

* * *

After everyone has left the bachelor party and the engaged couple returned home, the redhead frowns a little and pours them both a glass of whiskey. “You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

“There’s a case in Dallas that need additional eyes. Marked as high priority. I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. Heading straight to Texas.” Sara accepts the glass. 

“Crime does not rest.” 

“I’ll rest. I have vacation days to burn. I’ll come back to Alaska.”

“I’ll visit the Capitol more. D.C. is very close to Baltimore. We’ll work it out.” 

Sara smiles, something akin to hope filling her heart. She sips from her glass of fine whiskey, leans back in Mila’s armchair, loses herself into the darkening pools and dilating depths of Mila’s blue eyes, and appreciates the company.


End file.
